


Never Tell Me No

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Pacify [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Choking, F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3066053">"The Purpose of Loving is the Pounding it Takes"</a>. A few days after the Toolshed Incident, Beth still isn't quite getting what she needs. So of course she'll have to go after it. </p>
<p>It won't run far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Tell Me No

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so turns out the wee bondagey porn nugget I wrote a short while back has a bouncing baby whateverthefuck and indeed a bouncing baby series. I'll probably be writing more of these. Probably. (WHY DO I KEEP STARTING THINGS THAT DON'T END) In any case please regard this as a continuation of a theme.
> 
> For anyone who cares, the name of this series and this title of this part of it is drawn from the song "Papi Pacify" by FKA twigs. In fact [the (very gorgeous) video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OydK91JjFOw) inspired this thing in no small part.

So that happened.

For a while things go back to normal - for a given value of _normal._ Normal doesn't apply here, she thinks. It hasn't for a long time. It's not just the dead, it's not _just_ that - that much would have burned _normal_ to the ground and scattered the ashes all by itself, but it's everything that went with it. Her life also went up in flames, his, everyone's, and the last couple of years have been a constant process of figuring out what anything even means anymore.

Death is just one more of those things.

She feels it still. She went somewhere, and while she came back, sometimes she thinks not all of her did. She left something behind. She's trying to fill the hole. A part of her that's at once a little bit embarrassed and a little bit wicked laughs at that idea. That turn of phrase.

You know. Considering.

He always made her feel just a little bit more alive.

The hot days are here to stay, and turns out that in spite of it being technically _north_ of Georgia the DC metro area is just as much of a goddamn swamp as any place she's ever been, sticky and disgusting with air that clings like sweat-mist to your skin. It makes her itch, makes everyone cranky, because air conditioning is still a fairy tale no matter how many other little luxuries they've reclaimed, but as she works in gardens and patrols the walls with Maggie and Carol and helps with Judith and takes target practice with various people, every time she passes him it's like the air is dry enough to turn everything to static lightning. She touches him in all kinds of little ways that might be accidental - brush of fingers, his shoulder, his back, the nape of his neck, his hip, anywhere she _can._ And she would feel almost like she's bothering him - apparently she's still capable of feeling like that about him now and then - but for the fact that she's _positive_ he's doing the same with her.

It's like a prick in her skin, a hundred of them, rolling their bright little sparks all the way down to her cunt. Tiny little needles of how much she fucking wants him.

_Fuck._

That's a word with which she's getting more comfortable than she used to be. Time was, she thought about _making love._ She thought about it being so slow, so tender, about how special it would be. She still wants that, is the thing. She still wants it so much, wants to feel how much he cherishes her in how careful he is with her, how he refuses to rush things with her even if there are a lot of reasons to rush. That in itself is exciting if she's honest - how it makes her feel wanted, _needed,_ when she gets to hitch her legs over his hips, his hand in the dip at the small of her back and pulling her more firmly against him, kissing a trail down her throat and letting her feel every second of his deep, even thrusts. She loves how he's found a way to circle her clit with his tongue, giving her occasional slow, hard strokes, that keeps her on edge for what feels like _hours_ until he decides she's had enough and topples her over. Even then he doesn't release her, grabs her hips and keeps his mouth on her until she's muffling her hiccuping little cries with one hand and pushing at his head with the other.

They still aren't exactly sharing a bed, but a few weeks ago they stopped leaving afterward and now she loves how she gets to fall asleep with her head on his shoulder, tracing absent little designs over his chest and stomach with her fingertips.

None of this is what she expected. _Normal_ is an incredibly outdated idea.

She wants him to _make love_ with her. But more and more and more - and here, yes, she flushes all the way from her ears down to her chest - Beth Greene wants Daryl Dixon to _fuck her until she just can't take it anymore._

She knows she might have to push. She's very aware of that. She did with the toolshed. She did with the belt.

Except _that_ part had been all him, so maybe she doesn't actually have to push all that hard.

~

It's a muggy Saturday night. There's a barbecue - _a barbecue,_ she still sort of can't get her head around that because it's a little too close to what _normal_ used to be like - but they aren't out there with everyone else. They're here in her bed, sheets practically shoved onto the floor, and this is exactly how she wants to be: spread out under him, spread wide for him, wanting him so bad it hurts her because it's been _days_ and she's not sure she can remember ever needing it like this. She rakes her hands into his hair and rolls her entire body up against his, and maybe after the toolshed she shouldn't have trouble with this but she doesn't know how to tell him that she needs him to be harder, needs him to make her _feel_ him. She doesn't know how to tell him that she wants what he did before, something that felt like it was treading an edge. A sharp one. Something a little dangerous.

The world is so dangerous now. She shouldn't want more of it. Could be that's exactly why she does.

It already made one very solid effort to kill her and failed. She's pretty confident these days.

But maybe what happened in the toolshed spooked him, because she can feel the hesitance in him. His cock is nudging the inside of her thigh and when she runs her hands over his arms she can feel the little tremble that's worked its way into his muscles, that she only feels when he's with her like this. Like there's something under his skin trying to fight its way out. Like his body is struggling to contain it.

He's struggling too much right now.

She looks up. There's light spilling in through the window - firelight, lantern light, and it makes him all warm reds and honey-golds. Faint echo of laughter. People are happy tonight. She doesn't see any reason why they shouldn't be. Outside the dead rule but in here there's all the life they can grab for.

Grab. Pull. Drag into themselves, consume. There's a side to this business that's sweet and gentle, she thinks, this business of living. There's that side, in which she always believed, which she carried in herself like a treasure.

Then there's something else. Something red in tooth and claw that dances back toward the dead just to spit in their faces.

She touches his cheek, runs her fingers down to his mouth and then to his jaw. He's hot and it's not just the ambient temperature; he's burning over her and for an instant she imagines his blood thundering through his veins, simultaneously running from and chasing his roaring heart.

That's what she wants to feel.

"It's okay," she whispers, and his eyes widen. "It's alright. Promise, Daryl. It's alright."

_What is?_ she can tell he's about to ask, and she doesn't give him the chance; she doesn't want to have to answer the question and anyway he _knows_. He's known for days. He's been carrying it around just like she has.

She reaches between them, curls her hand around the base of his cock and guides him into her. And that's careful, that's gentle, and she takes a second to relish his soft gasp, but as soon as he starts to roll his hips, pushing deeper, she bares her teeth and digs her nails into his upper arm.

He jumps. In that warm, liquid light she sees him staring at her, mouth slightly open, but he hasn't pulled out of her, hasn't pulled away, and under the shock there's a distinct flare of recognition.

Christ, why did he _wait?_

She grins at him. Partly it's to show him, to provide some kind of proof that she's telling the truth, but it's also because she can't help it. His face is hilarious. If he doesn't push past it she thinks she might start laughing and she's not sure how he would take that. So she tenses the hooks she's made of her fingers and drags them down in a slow, deep scratch, letting teeth slip back into that grin. Hoping the light catches them. She wants no room for misinterpretation.

"C'mon," she whispers - then it twists on the last consonant and she almost groans. He's in her but it's not _enough_ and she rolls her hips against him again, trying to do what - for the moment - he isn't.

_Fucking_ hell, _Daryl._

"Come _on,_ " she says again - says, not whispers, pitching it into an impatient little whine. In her own ears, she sounds petulant. A bit spoiled. But she gets what she wants with him, she _should,_ he's _hers._

She would probably be shocked at herself, a few months and one bullet removed. A lot has changed since then.

But she can already see she doesn't have to push much more. He's still not moving, still just gazing down at her, but that gaze is darkening, something she's only seen once before drifting like smoke into the light of his eyes. She actually shivers, watching it, and not for the first time she wonders if she might release something she can't contain.

Except she doesn't believe that. That's a fantasy. The truth is always going to be more complicated.

She claws at him again and the last constructed restraints crumble and fall. They are and perhaps always were unnecessary. In a voice she barely recognizes she hisses, "You gonna fuck me, or do I have to do it myself?"

Another peal of laughter from outside seems to act as a trigger, and he moves.

It's fast, it's so fast it rips the breath out of her. It was like this before, she thinks - she pushed and pushed and when he snapped it was startling how quick he flung everything back at her. A spring releasing. An explosion of kinetic energy. He doesn't fuck her; he pulls back from her, and she's just opening her mouth to issue a startled complaint when he grips her by the hips and flips her over like she's made of twigs - except he wouldn't, if he really thought she was, and with a hard jolt it comes home to her, how when he does this it's because he _knows_ she's strong.

When he shoves her face-first into the mattress and hauls her ass into the air and buries his cock so deep in her it almost hurts, it's because he knows she's strong.

" _Daryl."_ His name comes out in a tight, delighted exhale, almost a squeak, and then she _does_ laugh as he fucks her - no pause, no slow buildup in his rhythm, hard and fast enough to make the bedframe rattle - because she gets what she wants with him, because he's _hers._ "Oh, God- Daryl- _Daryl."_

Just for a moment she gropes for words and all she finds is his name.

He's still just holding her hips but it feels like his hands are everywhere at once, rough enough to bruise - and he _did_ bruise her that last time and every time she caught glimpses of it she _loved_ it - on her waist and her back and shoulders, her arms, her wrists. Pulling at her, twisting, squeezing. She wants that, exactly that, every thrust sending waves of a strange, dense pleasure crashing through her. She wants him to _do_ that to her, find ways to hurt her that don't hurt, find ways to finally give her whatever it is she's been needing for so long.

He fucks her into the bed and she muffles her groans in the pillows, and then she thinks _hell with it_ and she picks her head up, lets the words come the way she did before, gasping in time with the thudding of her heart and his cock into her. _Daryl, yes, fuck me fuck me fuck me_ until a smile works its way into the words, until she's almost laughing again.

She never wants to be afraid to say it. Not anymore.

He hasn't said anything. He's this massive, silent force behind her and inside her, and there's something about that she likes, but all at once he seizes her shoulder and drags her up, rocks back on his knees so she's almost resting in his lap, half straddling him. He's handling her like a doll, one hand finding her breast and clamping down on her so sharply that pain flashes bright and hot through her and she lets out a little cry.

Which chokes into silence when his other hand closes over her throat and squeezes.

For the smallest fraction of a second she's terrified. She has only ever allowed herself to think this in the vaguest of ways, only in little flashes, because it's too horrible to contemplate directly, and it's horrible in no small part because of how profoundly she knows it would horrify _him._

But he could hurt her. He could _really_ hurt her. If he wanted to.

She's frozen. He's frozen. Outside is still laughter and now faint music, but in here, in this stiflingly hot room, everything is silent and cold.

He turns his head, then. His lips brush the outer edge of her ear, his breath warm against her neck. She knows. So many times he's leaned in like this, whether they're crossing paths during the day or sharing a meal or lying in tangles and drifting back down together, and he's leaned in and whispered _I love you._

_Beth, I love you._

She reaches up to her throat and covers his hand with hers.

_It's all right._

Everything is kind of a blur after that.

Later, looking in the bathroom mirror and surveying the damage, she'll wonder what it is about the line between pleasure and pain that it can dissolve so easily. She'll wonder if maybe it's something about _her,_ if something about her is wired wrong - maybe always was and she just never knew, or if maybe it's more recent than that.

She'll wonder if it matters. Because what she'll remember is wonderful.

Deep, heavy movement: riding an earthquake. Awkward, a little clumsy like this, but they find a way to make it work and she rises and falls with him, one arm hooked back over his neck, holding on - for dear life? Yes. Yes, that's exactly it. Dear life, which he's fucking into her, pushing it out of her in things that would be almost screams if he wasn't cutting them off with his hand over her mouth, fingers slipping past her lips and heavy on her tongue as she sucks at them. His palm on her throat - and yes, at one point she does have to struggle to breathe, just a little, and she almost comes right then.

She has no idea how long it goes on. Could be a long time. Could be hours. It can't be, there's no _way_ either of them could manage that, but what the hell - _normal_ is dead and gone, after all, and she's not sure any of the old rules apply.

Not to this. Not to them.

And they reach for her together, fingers colliding over her clit, and she arches back against him and laughs like something careless and wild and she's not even sure which of them makes her come in the end. Only that she does and it's like falling apart in his arms - and somehow it _is_ like that other side, the gentler side. He's practically snarling in her ear as he follows her, teeth bared against the nape of her neck, but beneath it she can feel such a heavy sweetness.

_Beth, I love you._

There's no order in which they collapse; it just happens, a mutual tumble that's almost harmonious. Sticky, boneless, lost between panting and still laughing, and he sounds utterly shocked. Reaching for her and murmuring her name. It's him again, just _Daryl-_ But it was Daryl then, too. It was always him. That's the point.

And he doesn't sound sorry.

This is the start of something different, she thinks, curled against him with his arms tight around her. Not the toolshed, not his belt. Not really. _This_ is the start, and after this everything will be skewed just a little bit further to the side. Just a little bit weirder. Everything undergoing redefinition.

Which, really... If there's any such thing as _normal_ , maybe it's this. This constant shifting. Realizing that borders and boundaries don't mean all that much anymore. Life and death are blurry categories these days.

But she _is_ alive. She never wants to forget that. There are lots and lots of ways he can remind her.

Because he's _hers._


End file.
